She did not answer—the sun was coming. Above the far rim it showed a thin rayless edge. Between, there seemed to lie a million miles of frozen sea. We watched it creep slowly westward. It was not a real sun, but a wraith—a vision such as Dante might have dreamed. Again, leaning near, I whispered to her; and again, just at first, she did not answer. Then, very softly: “But it was not until you found the new world that you were to claim your reward.” My heart bounded. She had remembered, then. “Yes—I wish only to _name_ it, now.” The sun that had grown to a narrow distorted segment became once more a wavering line. “Wait,” she said—“not now—to-morrow, perhaps—in the morning——” “Morning? It is months till then. It is the long night I am thinking of——” “Yes, I know. I didn’t mean—I meant——” and then somehow my arm had found its way about her, and she was close, close, and did not draw away. The sun went out. The black wall—the black sea—the great black Antarctic Night and cold closed in, but within and about us lay the ineffable glory that has lighted the world and warmed it since man first looked on woman and found her fair. XX. THE LONG DARK. I cannot attempt to picture the vast Antarctic Night. The words I have learned were never intended to convey the supreme mightiness of the Polar Dark. Chauncey Gale has referred to it as “Creation’s Cold Storage.” I am willing to let it go at that. In the electric blaze of the Billowcrest we made merry, and occupied ourselves usefully. When the cold without was not too severe we went snow-shoeing over Bottle Bay, where a crust of ice had eventually formed, and where snow grew ever deeper until we half expected to be overwhelmed. Sometimes we heard the roaring of the pack outside, but in our snug harbor we felt little of its grinding discontent. How much we were warmed by our current beneath the ice we could not know, but the thermometer at no time showed more than 30° below zero. I have seen it as cold in northern Nebraska. Neither was it wholly dark in clear weather. We had the stars, and at regular intervals, through our harbor gateway, the moon looked in. Often it was a weird, distorted moon—flattened and wrinkled by radiations of cold from the far-lying ice—but always welcome. More than once it was doubly and even trebly welcome, for the atmosphere was responsible for some curious effects. Once Gale came down hastily to where Edith and I were deep in a game of cribbage. “I want you and Johnnie to come on deck a minute,” he said with some urgency, “I want you to look at the moon.” We arrayed ourselves and obeyed. Gale led the way and pointed to the harbor entrance. “Nick,” he commanded, “I want you and Johnnie to tell me how many moons you see there.” My hand lay on Edith’s arm and I gave it a significant pressure. “Why,” I said, “I see one moon, of course. How many do you want me to see?”